He, in turn, looks like every academic in history: tweed and glasses, his teacup nestled in its saucer, the hints of grey at the temples. He seems soft at the edges in a way that his father had never been, and even seated, Andy can tell that they're nearly the same height, though James Sutcliffe was never quite so thin, not even in his youth. He stares at the older man, unblinking, trying to see his sister's features in the unfamiliar face, but it feels like trying to see his own in Aubrey-- useless. "I'm sure you've heard that many times."
Her name goes unspoken, but they both know who he means. "Yeah, that's what people tell me." He hopes his voice sounds neutral, but suspects something different, as he feels his shoulders stiffen. He lifts the teacup to his lips, taking in a minuscule sip, not thirsty, but going through the motions, a reliable tea drinker. Andy Sutcliffe is a polite boy. He hates the parallels, annoyed enough by the green eyes that are a family trait, and the pointed nose, the light brown hair that's nearly a dark blonde. People who see the version of herself she reserves for the public say that he has her charm and people who know the other side agree that he shares her mercurial moods. One sweeps over him as his shoulders relax and he considers leaving.
This was a mistake.
James Sutcliffe is Amy's real dad.
"And your sister?"
Andy shrugs, reaching into his pocket. Unlocking his phone, he finds the first picture he can of the two of them, wading through the plethora of recent pictures of his daughter to find it and sliding it across the table. They've forgiven each other enough to make new memories, but who can forgive this? "We look kinda similar," he allows. Brown hair, but hers is darker, the lips, the shape of the chin -- the more he stares, the less he sees. He expects to favour Jamie, both boys, and despite not having been born with a similar ... bulk, they've got the same head, light eyes, height, lighter hair. More shared DNA.
The man's eyes wrinkle as he smiles, removing his own phone. The background image is a ginger version of Amy, and his green eyes narrow in confusion, then shift to annoyance. The face belongs to him: his Amy, his first word. "Her sister," they say in unison, one a question, the other a statement. "April." Another a-name. Andrew, Arthur, Amelia, April. "And her daughter, Alexis." That one, he recognises from the website, her accent similar to the one Amy took on when she left home. She's the one who called him, the one who demanded they speak via FaceTime to avoid deceit, then screamed in surprised delight for the first three minutes. Does that mean I call you Uncle Andy? Will you introduce me to Ian Foster? She reminded him of the other niece: effervescent, everywhere, like a small bird. Another for the A-crowd. The name fits.
"You're married," he says, tone accusatory as he catches sight of the wedding ring.
Unfazed. "Fifty years next year." It seems an imaginable number despite his own promise of forever, and Amy is not fifty. The collection of maternal shortcomings grows as do the number of comparisons.
"What were you doing having a kid with my mum if you were married?" He means to say 'fucking' but the word catches on his tongue. The question is not as direct as he intended it to be, but straightforward. He knows you never leave the wife, the fiancee, the girlfriend, not really, but he feels a sudden surge of boyish protectiveness. Someone ought to have cared enough about his mummy to --
To do the 'right thing'.
Thinking it sounds archaic, and he has to ask the for first half of the sentence be repeated. "We could have been married, eventually, if she wanted it," he says, and Andy's brows lower, narrowing as the skin between the folds in confusion. "She said no. Being married to someone in academia would be -- hang on. I've got it here," he interrupts himself, patting down his suit jacket -- first the left side, and finding it on the right. He extends his arm across the table, offering a postcard, yellowed with age. A photograph of Johannesburg on one side, Andy recognises his mother's looped writing as he turns it over.
The final sentence catches his eye:
I just had a change of heart.